Which Way Is Down
by balladofbliss
Summary: "For all the hundreds of times she's envisioned this moment, it's never hurt quite this much in her head." Pre-3.05 musings. One-shot.


I'm not really sure where this came from - probably a combination of the heatwave presently crushing my corner of the world, some very long nights at work, and watching the promos for Messy Houses way too many times. Hopefully it makes more sense than I think it does. Thanks as always for reading.

Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue.

* * *

For all the hundreds of times she's envisioned this moment, it's never hurt quite this much in her head. Claire's insipid smile as she studies Andy's face; the 'it's good to see you,' as if colliding with an acquaintance in a coffee shop instead of laying eyes on her fucking child for the first time in fifteen years; the anger that ripples through her when she realizes that as much as she hates this woman for what she's done, she just wants to know her – no, not even that. She wants Claire to want to know _her_. Wants to push her away again and again and watch her return for another chance every time. Let her know what it's like to gather hope that everything will be whole again, only to have it dashed time after time.

In her mind, it's always been simple: a quick visual size-up, a terse 'screw you', and immediate closure thereafter. But as usual, reality seems to like getting in the way of her beloved plans.

It works out in her favor that it's a miserable day with impossibly high stakes. She's perversely grateful that she's too busy trying to talk a ten-year-old boy out of relinquishing the gun in his shaking hands to dwell on the eyes that are mirror images of her own. She can distract herself with negotiations and shots fired and finally, _finally_ getting all the kids out safely. Her uniform holds her upright; she lets it serve as her armor, trusts it to keep the memories of shouts and slammed doors, the furious accusations, the desperate _Why didn't you come back_? at bay. She sets her jaw, maintains professional distance as best she can (even if a couple of not-so-subtle digs emerge of their own accord) – and makes sure that this time, she walks away first.

But even in the relative familiarity of the locker room, she doesn't yet trust herself to speak. She keeps her teeth clenched and avoids eye contact. Whether it's due to exhaustion after their chaotic shift or that they all know more than she wants them to, nobody attempts to engage her. Sam is still in the D's office when she leaves, helping Jerry wrap up some details on the recovered guns; she texts 'going home' to him because it doesn't require her to talk, and because she knows he'll worry otherwise. She's come to terms with the fact that worrying about her is just what he does – and given what he saw and what he likely knows, today is unlikely to be an exception. Much as she wants to take off without leaving a footprint for anyone to find, some part of her realizes that it's not fair to run out on him just because Claire ran out on her.

Long walks usually help soothe her mind, but every nerve in her body is still standing on end by the time she arrives at the condo. She heads inside and leans against the front door after she shuts it behind her; as if to prove to herself that just this once, she can be okay standing still. After a minute, she summons the tenacious façade that's gotten her through this day for one more trick. A little wine and a warm bath, it tells her. That'll take care of it. _She doesn't need you; you shouldn't need much to forget her_.

She fills a stemless glass halfway and takes a long languid sip; it's astringent on her tongue. She goes to set the wine down, but a car alarm outside diverts her attention and she misses the countertop. A crash, and the tile floor is covered in shattered glass and Chardonnay. She reaches for a dishcloth and crouches down on her heels, trying to be careful as she picks up the larger pieces. She's doing just fine until she loses her balance slightly and instinctively steadies herself by placing a hand down on the ground, hissing as it lands in a pile of shards.

She gets to her feet and moves toward the bathroom, rinsing her hand under cool water and inspecting the damage. The lacerations aren't especially deep, but a few small pieces of glass remain embedded in her palm. She selects a pair of tweezers from the medicine cabinet and places them down so they hang over the edge of the sink, picking up the lighter she keeps on the counter for candles and passing a flame over the tips to sterilize them. She lets them cool before lifting them to her hand, attempting to disregard the trembling in her limbs from adrenaline and leftover trepidation. Mind over matter isn't always effective, though; it throws her aim off, and the metal prongs sink into her injured skin. A yelp of pain escapes, consumes her enough that she doesn't hear the spare key turning in the lock, or Sam calling her name – a neutral inquiry as to her whereabouts the first time, then again with more intensity as he passes the kitchen.

She doesn't notice anything, actually, until he steps through the open doorway; she's startled at the sudden movement, but is in no way surprised to see him there. She focuses on her outstretched hand, hears him suck in a breath as he steps forward to look at it. She doesn't resist as he takes the tweezers from her and coaxes the remaining sharp slivers from her palm; keeps her eyes shut as he gingerly brushes a peroxide-soaked cotton ball across the shallow gashes and wraps them in gauze. An imperceptible nod once the bandages are secured is the most expressive display of gratitude she can muster.

His fingers find her jaw line and tilt her chin up, gentle but firm, compelling her to look at him. The concern and compassion in his eyes are exactly what she expects to see and exactly what she didn't want to. She trusts those eyes far more than she trusts her tenuous resolve; something gives within her, and she goes from zero to broken in a matter of seconds.

He seems to sense it before it happens, and guides her to her bed, light pressure on her shoulders encouraging her to sit. She swings her lower body up onto the mattress and curls into a ball as he climbs in beside her. She lets him envelop her, arms pulling her into his chest and legs entwined. A sob claws its way out of her throat, and if it were anyone else there, she'd be mortified that she's about to completely lose her shit – but it's not anyone else. It does her in when he leans his head down to meet her gaze again, and she surrenders to the fifteen years' worth of anguish that culminated in one afternoon, everything she can't bring herself to say soaking into his shirt.

The hands stroking her back, the lips pressing against her hair are a silent reply: _I'm not going anywhere_.

* * *

She wakes up to the smell of coffee as morning light streams through the windows. Her duvet is pulled up around her shoulders – odd, because she'd bet money on the fact that she fell asleep on top of the covers. As she squints against the sun and pulls herself to a sitting position against the headboard, Sam appears in the threshold of the door, a steaming mug in each hand.

She accepts her standard cream-no-sugar as he settles himself on the edge of the bed beside her. The first sip of the warm liquid is like a balm, a remedy rather than an escape. "Thank you," she murmurs, hoping he knows she's not just referring to the coffee.

He nods, his free hand tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Anytime."

(Yeah, he knows.)

As they drink their coffee in comfortable silence, her mind meanders. She suspects that she'll find a clean kitchen floor when she eventually gets up, yesterday's ache pulling a disappearing act. (He's far too good to her that way.) But she'll still need to be careful; no matter how thorough one is, broken glass has a way of hiding in cracks and crevices, only to penetrate sharply long after one thinks it's gone.

She loves him for not trying to get her to talk last night, for finding a way to give her what she needed without saying a word. (Loves him for a lot more than that, if she's honest, although that particular conversation is going to have to wait.) But she needs to pull the shards from her skin if she's ever going to heal – if _this_ is ever going to work. Even if she'll never be as ready as she'd like, she's ready enough.

"She had this scarf she never wore that she kept hanging in the hallway," she says hesitantly. "It was gone when I got home from school… that's how I knew."

He looks at her steadily. _Go on_, the tilt of his head tells her.

So she does.


End file.
